


declarations of co-dependency.

by brainiac



Category: Detective Comics (Comics), Gotham (TV)
Genre: (With additional off-screen pre/during moments.), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Comics/Show Combination, M/M, Philosophy, Physiology, Post-Canon, Psychology, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-03-17 13:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13659798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brainiac/pseuds/brainiac
Summary: You wouldn't even catch him admitting it over his own dead body, but Edward was kind of held captive by his own brain at the idea of seeing the Penguin again. The temptation, he conceded to only himself, was too enticing to ignore.Optional playlist available here.





	1. ennui.

In Roman Catholicism, the idea of  _Purgatory_ was described to be a place of in-between, intended for those "who die in God's grace and friendship, but still imperfectly purified", where their soul was meant to do penance for their sins before continuing on to Heaven. In a city where the people's fear of God was lesser than the fear of those trying to  _play_  Him,  _Purgatory_  was a joke. 

 _Atone for your sins_ , Edward thought to himself bitterly, fiddling with the rongeur in his hand. His mother had kept a cross in the kitchen, nailed to the pale-yellow wall beside the fridge. In the dictionary of philosophy he'd practically memorized in university, it was hard to find a page where some omnipotent force wasn't mentioned. In the GCPD, Christian men heavy with the fear of judgement seemed to infect the precinct like an infestation. It shouldn't have been surprising that on the first day he felt truly reborn, there it was again, the idea of it all itching beneath his skin.

"Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able?"  _Then he is not omnipotent._  

Ed felt the unceremonious snap of Kristen's humerus giving way.

"Is he able, but not willing?"  _Then he is malevolent._

Tom had bled more, but then, there'd been less of a delay between the deed and the disposal in his case.

"Is he both able and willing?"  _Then whence cometh evil?_

He felt adrenaline bubble up inside his stomach like he was in a race for his life. 

"Is he neither able, nor willing?"  _Then why call him God?_

Epicurus, the person who'd said this, had always been a man of interest to Edward - someone with faith in Gods, but not trust. To know something was there, but entirely unwilling or unable to help, was, to him, both a very Greek and very Gotham idea. The GCPD acted in a similar way to how Epicurus seemed to characterize God - malevolent, as he'd said, or simply incapable. More often than not, incompetent - so then, like the Ancient philosopher asked, why call them Gods? He lifted the dead weight of Miss Kringle's lifeless arm in his hand and considered it.

He wasn't afraid of them - his coworkers, that is, not anymore. Not when he knew with just a press of a knife that that could all be solved. But he didn't want to do that, didn't want to waste a blade sawing off the legs of the high horses belonging to High school failures and future divorcees. He couldn't imagine any of them really posing a threat to whatever butterfly effect the murder of his girlfriend had started anyway, but that didn't mean he wouldn't think later on the subject. What to do beyond that, though, was an entirely different story.

What did a man capable of slaughter get up to in his spare time?

* * *

The answer to his inquiries came in the form of a bird with a broken wing. He had heard the question asked before in university-paid therapy sessions -  _if you found one on the side of a road, would you kill it?_  Oswald Cobblepot, though, had neither been on the side of the road, nor at all a hypothetical, and as Edward drove back to the city with the windows of his car rolled down and a crimelord in his back seat, he wasn't sure this was at all what his counselor had meant. 

He didn't stir at all, not until they were well within the shadowy arms of Gotham, and when he did Ed's eyes snapped up from the road to him like a bullet. But the Penguin simply furrowed his eyebrows, inhaled sharply, and appeared to return back into his undoubtedly dreamless sleep.  _Benzodiazepines will do that to you_.

Carrying heavy knockout drugs on your person was one thing, carrying a person itself was another. Exhausted, hungry, and altogether ready for bed, by the time Edward got his new friend out of his vehicle, into his apartment, and up the elevator, he was panting like a dog with heatstroke. There was nothing elegant about the process of assessing the damages, and even less graceful was the improvised surgery that followed as Ed cautiously sewed back the pieces of one of Gotham's most dangerous criminals. His hand was steady, but his faith that it would stay that way was much less so, and through the hours - despite his nerves begging him to jump ship and swim to the shore without any dastardly murderers - he soldiered on, finally lying Oswald Cobblepot back, treating his guest as if his porcelain white skin were really just that - porcelain. 

There was no Hyde to his Jekyll to calm his worries as Edward sat at his small dinner table, contemplating what he’d just done and what he’d now do. And, to contrast this, there was no Jekyll to his Hyde as his brain raced with the millions of possibilities this sudden new companion offered – the inspirational, horrible, and downright malicious actions of the Penguin mixed into the already cocktail life he’d spun for himself after his first kill.

 _Either way_ , he thought to himself as he looked over to the flightless bird,  _my boredom issue has been solved._

* * *

Edward was wrong. Being an insane criminal, as it turned out, happened to be one of the most monotonous jobs in the world. Or at least, when one found one's self caught in the limbo of Arkham asylum. He'd passed his days slowly in that bird cage, eagle eyes perched on person after person, memorizing likes and dislikes, schedules and chores, when best to smile and when best to not. In a few weeks time he'd already made an intricate spider's web of his surroundings, tugging at the strings once and a while just to see the bugs squirm. And god, were there so many bugs to tug at. Some were intriguing - he'd only read about particular disorders in university, when they'd just been symptoms of bigger things, like psychopathy or disassociative identities. But seeing each person and their individual chemistry was fun, at first.

Until it was not.

"You seem... depressed, today, Mr. Nygma,"

Edward exhaled through his nose audibly, making a point of cocking his head. "Do I?"

The doctor - a nameless face, one of those people whose only defining feature was their dull tone - raised an eyebrow. "To a degree." he insisted. "Maybe you had a bad sleep?"

A shrill scream sounded from down the hall. "Must've," Ed smiled.

"Hm..." said the doctor.  _Maybe he wasn't even one._

"Hm," replied Edward. They parted ways several minutes later. 

It would be weeks before something interesting happened, and before it eventually did, Edward wouldn't have expected it to come as a gift.

 _A sweater._ He wasn't even sure he was allowed to wear it. It was itchy looking but surprisingly soft, and green, his favourite colour, which only a few people knew, though he wouldn't have to wonder about the benefactor for long, as a little note fell out from the packaged innards of the gift soon after he held it up curiously.

 _Hopefully this will save you from the drafts.  
Oswald_.

Short and almost disturbingly sweet. For a brief moment, Ed wondered if it was some kind of threat - a promise that he'd pay for shooing his quite literally feathered friend from his house on the fateful day of his release.  _But then, underestimating the Penguin's friendship was what had gotten him into Arkham in the first place_ , he reminded himself dutifully. And so, consequentially, he made it his venture to see the act as a kindness. 

A job that would become increasingly difficult with every gift he got.

The next one was a visit. Barely more than fifteen minutes long, Oswald seemed stressed, and annoyed, but genuine. It was hard to get him to stop speaking. He didn't even mention the sweater. By the end of it all, it felt more like a fever dream, like Ed had just pretended a criminal mastermind had packaged and mailed him a pullover grandmother style.

And it was because of this that the biscuits were such a shock.

They came in a plastic container nearly a week later that looked almost medical, though the inside was decorated with a handkerchief, one of the most Oswald acts Ed could imagine. Once he sifted through to the bottom, there was another note.

 _I know how the food gets, hopefully this'll be a relief. Mother's recipe.  
Oswald_.

There it was again, the word 'hopefully'. If it was a code, Edward's brilliant mind couldn't crack it, his brain working back and forth over the word intently like a search dog, scouring for clues. He broke apart a biscuit, let the crumbs tumble down his cold fingers, and stared at the notes. If there was invisible ink, Ed decided it wasn't worth it to risk a trip to the nurse's dorms for a hairdryer or something of the sort. So instead he breathed on the paper, held it up to lights, scratched and smelt it 'til every one of his senses were protesting that  _there wasn't any point, stupid_.

Or maybe that a voice in his head.

He needed a nap.

* * *

"I couldn't get your car back," 

Edward looked to the giant front door where his friend stood, the words ironing him back down to reality. Oswald seemed... ashamed, almost, like the fact that his dumb lemon hadn't been retrievable was a crime worse than any he'd already committed. Ed tried not to laugh, and instead just grinned, shaking his head slowly and taking a step towards him. " _Oswald_ , it's ludicrous that you could feel bad about that when you've just driven me to a _mansion_ in a _limo_ ,"

He got just a short huff as a reply at first. "Well," started his host, "my friend, it was a lovely little vehicle,"

Without thinking, Edward scoffed. "We were in the same one, right? I think I inherited it from a blind ex-convict. It -"

Oswald's sudden laugh cut him off, and Ed went from grinning to beaming in seconds as his companion walked over through to the parlor and gestured around. "I do hope at least that this will make up for it," he stated, waving a hand casually to the gorgeous curtains and meticulously crafted wall patterns behind them. "because what's mine is yours, if you'll have it!"

He felt dizzy with delight. The high ceilings and Gothic atmosphere seemed almost alive with Edward as he was given a full tour, starting from bottom to top and ending with his new bedroom, a quaint and cozy place with its own desk, bookshelves, and wide bed spread out over polished hardwood floors, long green blankets folded up tidily next to -

"A suit," Oswald stated as Ed approached it, treating the gorgeous outfit like an ensnared animal. He shook his head again, disbelief and adoration squirming in his stomach, scratching at his insides and begging desperately for him to find words.

"I -"

"A campaign manager needs one, you know," said his friend very suddenly, placing a gloved hand on the bedpost. When Edward caught his eye, there was a sly smile on Oswald's face, like the words held some secret that only they shared.

This time, the code was there, and more crackable than the thinnest glass. 

"I look forward to working with you, Mr. Cobblepot,"

There was no annoyance at the title in his voice when Oswald replied, "And I, you,"

* * *

If nothing good lasts forever, then nothing absolutely fantastic should stick around for more than a week. _At least, that's how it should've gone_ , Ed thought, his nimble fingers fiddling with a broken pencil, _in retrospect_. There shouldn't have been so much time given to him to boil alive in all the marvelous extremities Oswald had offered him. The more time he spent neck-deep in dazzling flirtations, or what he now recognized as such, the less there was available for him to contemplate the inevitable end of things. He hadn't gotten a second alone, and because of this, hadn't gotten a second to prepare when he realized what his only friend had done.

Barbara's face had made it worse. 

To be fair though, that could be said about most things back then. Seeing Barbara was never a good sign, not at least for him, not in the first years he'd dawned his new career ambitions and gone full supervillain on the city. Where there was a will, there was a way, and where there was a blonde witch with just some of the most appalling hair choices in the country, there was hardly ever a way _out_.

Ed balanced the pencil on the tip of his index finger. It moved gently back and forth, the side that was snapped a bit moreso. Barbara was never an issue, not to the extreme extent that Oswald had become. As things progressed, he'd gone from one drastic to another - from greatest enemy, to greatest ally, to and fro until they'd both collided violently, causing a generous breadth some years back to send them distanced for a number of years to then come. 

As to be expected, in Gotham, there were times they'd seen each other. Even times you could say that they'd met - not with schedules, or with the intent to accomplish anything Oswald could mold into the form of business, but with the recent surplus in individuals with rather immoral ideas in mind, the Iceberg Lounge had become rather the hotspot, and so it wasn't surprising the Riddler would find himself slinking nearby the joint. It was a mess, really, how they'd avoid and then run into one another so often, but then it'd all stopped, and Ed found himself sitting in his new apartment, snapped pencil in hand and cold tea mockingly reflecting his tired eyes through the beaker mug.

New apartment. Always new, that was how it was for him now. Everything he owned was cheap, sore on the eyes, and new. If backs had mouths of their own, his would tell a sad story of constant misery - stiff mattress to stiff mattress, sometimes even floors, padded with blankets he'd nabbed from shelters or thrift stores.

Not that he was poor, by any means. He'd saved up, admittedly, an almost ridiculous amount of funds from job to job, splurging often on the most comical of plans to spread terror and fear through the city whenever he pleased. Though if he was being fair, things had recently become more and more difficult - with the rise of one particular vigilante that out of nowhere seemed suddenly almost proud to take on Gotham's most elite criminals. Edward's latest endeavor had been bumped to the _fourth page_ of the Gazette, which also mentioned quite rudely that the "city's masked hero" had "ignored" the Riddler, and opted instead to assist police on a raid, bagging multiple high-profile dealers and - 

"Like I wanted the idiot's attention in the first place!" Ed yelled aloud without warning, his pencil clattering against the ground as he stood from his desk. "He's - he takes on big names, but he does so carelessly, without thought or - I could've -"

His phone vibrated aggressively from the floor. He supposed, seethingly to himself as he leaned down to nab it, that he'd knocked the thing down along with his pencil when he'd stood and broken it somehow. But, as he stared at the small screen, it didn't seem broken - in fact, a familiar number was blinking almost angrily at him, and so he flipped it back, and inhaled slowly.

"Selina, y -" 

"No small-talk. Can we meet?"

Like a light-switch, Edward felt himself go from waspish to intrigued. It wasn't often rogues would contact him these days for help, and it was even less so that it would happen to be the Sirens. The three ladies, especially as of late, hadn't seemed bothered in the least by the uproar of hope that that _masked hero_ appeared to have spurred, and because of this, they'd actually been rocking the solo game, featuring the occasional appearance of their mutual friend Harley as a sidepiece to the Joker.

"Pretty kitty's got something she needs?" he said teasingly, twisting around to look outside the street-view window. The sunlight outside had all but died away in the ripples of storm clouds above, and Edward probably would've been completely convinced it was night at that point, if not for the fact that the lamps below had yet to turn on. Not that the city cared to replace the ones that broke, anyway, that was hardly on the 'top five things Gotham should improve on' list regardless.

"It's a yes or a no, Riddler. I'm not interested in -"

"Not to be unfriendly," he introduced quickly, laughing a bit. "considering the three of you and I have just a _lovely_ history," he heard her breathe on the other end. "but if you think you've got me _whipped_ , then you have another thing coming."

"It's business," she said curtly, as if that settled the matter. As if every connotation that came with those two words didn't spark explosive reaction after explosive reaction in Edward's brain, lighting it up like New Years eve on crack.

"Well," he touched the leathery purple gloves situated tidily over the window ledge dramatically, despite the lack of any audience for blocks. "who is the unlucky sucker today?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me when I say there will be more dialogue soon, I'm just too pretentious to pass up the opportunity to write 2k+ words on just Edward Nygma commentary alone. Up next: the Riddler thinks long and hard about something that goes up, but never comes down.


	2. âge.

Ed wouldn't ever have really described his mother as poor. She worked a nine-to-five job starting from when he began attending high school, and along with his father jumping from part-time to part-time, the two made it off perfectly fine. And yet, still, all Edward's time growing up was spent in that grubby house, on the outskirts of a city nobody really lived in, and to the outside world, the three of them might as well have been squatters. 

She would splurge sometimes, on wines. Ed would sometimes see her wearing a coat that looked too tailored to belong in their neighborhood, or a bracelet that shone like a second sun in comparison to their dreary silverware.  _I suppose_ , Edward thought to himself rather humbly, _I might've picked up that trait from her_. And he had a point. Though there was method to his chaos, Ed was still prone on his worst day to spending cash on last minute plans or extravagant deals. Which was partially - he'd never admit to it being anything more than that - why he was where he was. Financial issues had dug him deep into a grave of debt - not to a particular bank or individual person, but to himself. He believed, in all his narcissism and pride, that he deserved more than what he got. Every time he ordered takeout it never tasted the same as he once recalled it had. Regardless of the restaurant, food, or the class associated with the joint, it was always digested bitterly, and with a sour tang. 

Ivy Pepper considered him, in all his mixed up glory, and Edward supposed he should have been grateful, even if just for that. Their history, just them on their own, was as deep as any relationship's water went in Gotham. If you lived a life there, you were a deep-sea diver, treacherously treading through tides filled with colorful corals that climbed people's lives like vines, connecting each citizen no matter the age, race, or even species, these days. She wasn't wearing her get-up, but she didn't need to. If there was anyone around to see her in what she likely considered her domestic attire, then they were supposed to be there anyway. It took Ed 48 minutes just to find the place.

"Hey, grandpa," she said smoothly, her grin cattish as a common ivy tried to wrestle its way under his arm, wriggling as if eerily sentient over his suit shoulder.

Ed returned the smile, trying to not grab a leaf and tug, simply letting the Hedera settle where it liked and stilling by the doorway. "Good evening, _kiddo_ '." he replied seethingly, praying he wouldn't next be feeling some new green coil up to his ear as he continued. "Emblem of youth and innocence, with walls enclosed for my defense, I boldly spread my charms around, 'til some rude l -"

"You know those aren't my forte." Ivy's thin fingers tapped the counter behind her, trimmed and painted nails clicking on the surface. _The riddle's answer had been roses, the color of her polish_. "I prefer poems, actually. Did you bring Selina with you?"

"Poetry is also wordplay. And no," Edward looked around the room as the plant beside him seemed to retreat, their small-talk becoming thick with the mutual realization that they both didn't know anything about each other. "I thought she'd be here."

In the ensuing pause, Edward got to focus more on his surroundings. The place was almost empty, save for some homemade shelves with mugs, dusty packaged syringes, and odd watering cans scattered over them. There was a wall with large glass doors behind Ivy, similar to a supermarket's frozen aisle, though Ed could not see past the weird green fog on the windows, or locate a light-switch to help him do so. Instead, he opted to simply distance himself from the door, where much thicker plants and their coils seemed to be gathering by, and lean over the surface to look at Ivy as she sighed.

"She's got a nasty habit of not turning up unless there're Temptations involved." her eyes met his, and he quirked an eyebrow at the joke. She shrugged. "I dunno' how I convinced myself that _you_ might be the treat that did the trick."

Edward bristled at that, trying to work out if what she'd implied was an insult or a compliment as Ivy swiveled around, planting her elbows in front of him and picking at the tile. "Are you - why would _I_ be the thing that got her here?"

"Oh," she hummed nonchalantly. "there's just been some drama."

Another silence lapsed between them. _Drama. Right._ Ed rubbed his forefinger and thumb together beneath his gloves, trying to make sense of that without sizzling to a crisp in the process. He'd been invited by a Siren to one of their places after months for... _for drama_. 

"She thinks you can help," Ivy went on, ignoring the private, raging confusion that was bursting like an explosive behind Edward's eyes. He huffed, standing taller and glaring through his contacts.

"And... you both couldn't have just told me this over the phone... _because_ -?" his open-ended question seemed to trigger a laugh in Ivy, and another annoyed loss for words gutted Ed while she chuckled.

"Oh, _buddy_... because there's no way in _Hell_ you were gonna' wanna' hear us out,"

* * *

Harlequin dolls would never look the same to him, but that went without having to be said, as did a lot of things after a while in Edward's life. Classic fairy-tale rhymes were always followed by a petty silence as he recalled previous encounters with Tetch, knock-knock jokes left an eerie bubbling of dread in his stomach, and when 'Thriller' came on come October in marketplaces and passing car radios, he'd always nearly retch at the recollection of Grundy's swampy stench.

Harlequin dolls, though, they almost felt redeemed. They were the one exception to the law of the rogues - the one theme that, if anything, was  _improved_  when Harley surfaced. Edward had never been overly fond of the things, I mean, how could you be? Their quite literally glassy eyes and strange get-ups reminded him of the scent of mothballs and his mother's bedroom, a terrible and dusty combination that he was glad to be rid of. Harley, in all her red-and-black glory, reminded him of rather the opposite. When she came to mind, thoughts of excitement and mind-boggling criminal adventures danced in his head, as if heists he'd performed with her had just happened yesterday, hours ago, sometimes even in the last minute. And her domestic company was just as out of whack as the rest of her, but he loved it - impressively crafted homemade cocktails, shockingly insightful chaotic conversations, and a number of references that always went over his head. Harley Quinn, that terribly wonderful woman, held a soft-spot in him, and so when Poison Ivy said, "It's for Harley," after the heavy quiet that followed her long-winded explanation of what he'd actually been summoned for, he was immediately moved, even if only a smidgen. 

"You want me to... you want me to kill the Joker... _for Harley_?"

Ironically, Ivy seemed shocked at that. The Stachys leaf she'd been toying with while she had spoken - _lamb's ear, maybe, it looked incredibly soft_  - was pressed onto the table she'd plucked it from, and she stared at Edward for a moment longer before releasing it.

"No." Ivy said. "Not you... ugh, _I don't know_ , Selina could explain it better I think." she crossed her arms and looked away over to the door. Wherever Kyle was, Ed for once didn't actually care to question, and he waved a gloved hand in the air aimlessly to prove how little this sentiment meant to him.

"I don't care about the cat brat, Ivy, _you can't just leave me with that_." Edward insisted, moving forwards to look at her through his mask. He felt a familiar, nervous sweat begin to form on his temple like a tiny avalanche. "I can't kill the Joker. _No one can_. Or rather, maybe anyone can, but nobody's been stupid enough to try."

"Exactly, Riddles." his companion exclaimed, hands gesturing where they lay, loosely encasing a potted plant. Her eyes met his once more in a defined and determined fashion. "Nobody's tried, so... well, why not let it be by the hands that fed the beast in the first place?"

Ed opened his mouth, shut it, and then opened it again. Whatever that was supposed to mean, he didn't bother to linger on it. Trying to make sense of the things other people tried to convey to him sometimes felt not only fruitless, but annoying as well. Half of the time what he didn't immediately get wasn't worth the effort to understand anyway, and the other half of the time the words spilled from the mouth of an idiot anyway. Edward's point was still in effect as far as he was concerned, so he continued, idly hoping Ivy wouldn't notice him completely stepping over her short tangent. "Nobody... has tried to kill the Joker," he repeated, emphasizing his words carefully. "because the Joker... isn't a threat."

 _That, and his pathetic little gang of intoxicated clowns have the tendency of opening fire on anyone who even looks at their boss's stupid rat hole_ , Ed thought to himself. He'd only heard the rumors, received the warnings, and read the papers. As far as he was concerned, the Joker had gone from a once interesting creature to roadkill on the street. Harley's fascination with him was the only time his name was brought up at all, and unless his poorly painted makeup made it into the paper because some other villain happened to not have pillaged the city that night, Edward rarely even gave him the time of day to think about. 

"Yeah, right." Ivy said, eyes turning over in their sockets to roll as if it were Ed who was the stupid one.  _Was he?_ "You won't read about this from the Gazette, but Joker's been moving."

Edward cocked his head. "Moving?"

"You heard me. His stupid little cockroach legs have landed him by _your_ old terf, coincidentally. You know, the docks,"

"What..." Ed narrowed his eyes in thought, biting his lip curiously. His 'old terf'... 'by the docks'? She could only mean one place, unless this was some vast puzzle to remind him of his time as an icicle under Cobblepot's care. He cleared his throat. "What does _the Joker_ want with old warehouses?" 

"Well," Ivy began, slippery as ever in the way she moved, tugging a strand of long, red hair as she leaned closer. "that is the question."

She got him. Hook, line, and sinker, Edward went down like a weighed boat in the water. He didn't even bother to find ways to float - his mind was now set on the ocean floor, curious brain alight with what the hell this unimportant ex-crimelord could be getting up to. Despite this though, and never would he admit to it, the slight trepidation he felt was swallowed down to his gut as he considered why they'd believed he'd help in the first place. Harley needed help - help enough that the two Sirens still left with their wits had contacted the only thing worse than an old enemy.

An old friend.

* * *

Nudged gently, Edward was awoken not by the eerily close noise of passing sirens, but by Selina Kyle's steak-knife-sharp gloved forefinger prodding his shoulder. He winced, immediately recognizing the feel of her hand although months had passed since he'd last felt it on him. Grabbing for his coat despite his clear inability to see through the bright fog of the suddenly turned on lounge light, he managed to pull a button off in his rush to seem a more presentable mess. Ivy didn't seem to share his enthusiasm. 

"Back so soon, kitty?" she drawled from where she sat, lying on the couch idly beneath a huge sheet of detailed paper. It was a map of Gotham - Ed's personal one, which he'd gone as far as to return home to retrieve. Already it had a growing water stain from their time studying it where a fire department had once been illustrated, but somehow this was an easy thing to overlook in his brain, likely due to the sickly irony that that very station had burnt down not a month ago. He'd laughed about it, Ivy had yawned, and it didn't take more than thirty minutes until the chart went from a vital part of their developing plan to Poison Ivy's new blanket. She turned slightly, and Edward prayed a tearing sound would not follow.

"You guys fell asleep?" was Kyle's curt response, dropping a bag of orange chips onto the table before the two punctual people, disrupting nothing but Edward's own thought process as he adjusted back into being conscious. 

"And, somehow, we were still more productive than you." he replied scathingly. His hands skimmed the front of his suit jacket as he straightened it back onto him. " _Cheetos_?"

Selina laughed. "Well, good to know you're on our side, Nygma,"

Ed's face curled into a smile as well, his partially sideways mask now moving in tandem with him. He went to fix it over his eyes and fell silent as the party's latecomer dropped like a stone onto the floor to curl her legs up. _Criss-cross-applesauce_ , his childish brain eagerly reminded him. 

The flat Ivy had insisted they move locations for the second he'd made the agreement was... dirty, but more welcoming than he'd anticipated. Though it lacked normal appliances and electricity, it was still furnished with couches, chairs, and tables, all of the rich and comfortable variety. Edward almost had mustered the courage to ask where'd they'd come across such lavish options, but somewhere in his gut he already knew the answer. It wasn't as if it was a secret that collectibles were on the forefront of a kleptomaniac's mind, and the Sirens? They liked their goods to be showy anyway. 

"I'm on your side," he said at last. "the way a tire could be described as being on the side of a car."

Ivy publicly reviewed this analogy, and seemed to decide that she both hated and didn't understand it, throwing her head back and clearly preparing herself to ignore him completely. Ed straightened his back at the challenge, about to explain himself further, but Selina cut him off. When he snapped his head in her direction, brain already loading itself like a readied rifle with comebacks and retorts, he was surprised to see her turned away, scraping delicate fingers over the floorboards of the apartment in an almost reserved manner. "Well," she started. Her voice might not have been soft or quiet, but there was still an unusual amount of hesitancy behind it, and it once again intrigued Edward in ways he couldn't explain. "I don't know, man. I don't get you -"

 _That was a compliment._ To him, at least, remaining elusive to the public understanding felt more like a positive personality feature than anything -

"- but you get Cobblepot."

\- _and that was an insult._

"Cobblepot?" Ed repeated stupidly. For a split second, his brain autopiloted its way through the turbulence of the conversation, and what came out was a spluttered nonsense of childish airplane sounds before his tongue caught up to his mind. He couldn't wrap an understanding around it, he couldn't wade through the slow churning water of what that sentence had made his mind into. " _Cobblepot_?" he said again. He felt like a baby.

Following his bordering on primal outburst, Selina appeared less puzzled and more angry, her brows knitted so closely together that one might've gotten a headache from just peering at her. Perhaps she was feeling defensive, or perhaps simply unreasonable. Her eyes betrayed nothing but a curt and nearly comforting rage. It was nice to see her as she usually was. Ivy, on the other hand, seemed fearful.

" _You didn't fucking tell him_?" the cat barked. If her hair could, it would've risen like fur. It was a good distraction to imagine a tail lashing behind her as she brought a fist down on the table separating them. The other Siren jumped like a cornered rabbit. 

"I thought you did!" she shrieked, a volume loud enough for Ed to drop his head down into his hands as the talk devolved into a screaming match. He felt his hair between his gloves, unraveled the careful way it was styled as he thumbed it in thought. Somewhere in his brain, a voice noted that his contacts were getting uncomfortable. Somewhere else, a voice reminded him of Oswald. 

 _Hadn't it been years?_ he asked himself.  _No, I put on my contacts just last night. Since I saw the Penguin, not the contacts! It hasn't been 16 hours, has it? Has it been 16 months?_

"This isn't some game, leaf-brain!" Selina spat.

Ivy made a noise of distress but didn't reply, instead throwing the city's blueprints to the ground carelessly and pursing her lips. She looked like an open wound in that light, all puffed up and red in the face. If she was going to say something, she didn't get the chance to, because everything paused in an almost cinematic way as Edward spoke up.

"Isn't it?" he asked.

Their turmoil ceased as if, for as moment, it hadn't even existed in the first place. His brain recoiled as well and Ed, unsure if this was a relief or the eye of a storm, continued. 

"Isn't this just a game? You're playing whack-a-mole with the Joker and you need some extra hammers." he explained idly, standing up as he spoke. He tossed his head up to stare at the ceiling, carefully trying to find words among the chaos of ideas. "If you need me to get to Penguin, I..." 

_I won't._

_You couldn't even pay me to._

_I'd rather rot._

"I will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be posting much more regularly. My twitter is @.R_ddler.


End file.
